


The Immortal Game

by WritingIsMyGame



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6249214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsMyGame/pseuds/WritingIsMyGame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod and Abbie get an invitation to play a very dangerous game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. King's Gambit Accepted

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to write something Sleepy Hollow related for the past couple of weeks and I’ve been hesitating because of all the threads unraveling (or tying up?) in the show itself. I’m such a canon-focused person that I am reluctant to write something that’ll contradict canon in a “normal” non-AU story. LOL! (I know. Crazy, right?)
> 
> So, let’s just say that this is a story that will fit in somewhere in season 3. After Kindred Spirits, at the very least, and may or may not take into account the last four episodes of season 3 (depending on what happens in them).

“The impatience of the people in this era!”

Crane’s strident tone carried several feet into the tunnel through which Joe and Jenny were walking. Jenny glanced over her shoulder at Joe, and the flash of his smile made hers grow as the two of them pushed open the door into the archives.

Crane was, at that moment, standing on the raised platform at one end of the large room, gesturing madly with his hands as he paced back and forth. “That brigand nearly took off one of the headlights of your motor vehicle, Lieutenant!”

“This diatribe on bad driving coming from Mr. “I obey the traffic rules” Crane,” Abbie said in a very dead-pan voice.

Consternation crossed Crane’s face for a second—but only a second. Crane was a notorious speed demon. He’d taken to driving like a duck to water and even gave Jenny pause when he got behind the wheel. And he’d yet to get an actual real driver’s license. Not in England and certainly not in America.

Despite her words, however, Abbie had that fond, indulgent look on her face that meant she was in one of her God-I-love-it-when-he’s-like-this moods. Jenny’s lips quirked up, and she slanted a glance at Joe, who waggled his eyebrows at her.

Jenny set down the large satchel she was holding and said, “I thought I saw steam rising from Abbie’s car when we drove into the parking lot.” She raised an eyebrow at Crane. “Abbie is still letting you drive it after what you did to the motorcycle?”

Joe crossed the room, shedding his jacket as he went, not bothering to hide his grin. 

Crane whirled in her direction, a scowl on his handsome face. “And what would you have had me do, Miss Jenny? Let those ruffians murder me there in the middle of the road?” He straightened his coat, which had gone a bit askew during his pacing, and shook his head. “I think not.” Crane took another breath and continued, “I think my diversion was a great success. It got those malfeasants off of my trail, and I managed to procure the item I desired.” He smirked at her. “A win-win, as you would say.”

It was on the tip of Jenny’s tongue to make a dry comment about not thinking his pulling a mirror demon out of that particular desired item was a “win”, but she squelched that instinctual reaction. Crane’s despair and desperation over Abbie’s disappearance wasn’t anything that any of them were ready to joke about.

And, Jenny had to admit to herself, that she was kinda in a lovin’-Crane-on-a-rampage mood herself. Especially when it put a smile on her sister’s face.

So, instead, she flashed a grin at him and said, “Well, I consider it a win that you were already off the road before I got on it.”

“A win-win all around. I’ve been in a car with you,” Abbie said dryly, immediately jumping to Crane’s defense.

Jenny’s smile grew larger as she saw Crane’s nod of approval at Abbie. It was just too easy with the two of them. Too damned easy.

Abbie’s brows came together, and she pursed her lips as she looked at Jenny. Then, as she was wont to do, Abbie firmly changed the subject. “What’s in the bag?” she asked.

Crane was instantly diverted. His long legs brought him quickly over to where Jenny stood, his blue eyes lively and curious as he peered down at the satchel. “You said you and Master Corbin were going to hunt for more Sumerian artifacts. Did you find something pertinent to our fight against the Hidden One?”

Jenny picked up the satchel again and walked over to where Abbie and Joe were lounging against the table and set the satchel on it. Crane trailed along after her.

“No. Nothing new on the Sumerian front,” Jenny said with a brief shake of her head. “This isn’t anything that we found.” She hesitated then. “Well, technically we _found_ it, but it’s actually meant for the two of you.”

“The two of us?” Abbie’s voice was skeptical, but Crane had already grabbed the satchel and had begun to inspect it.

“Wait, wait, hold on there a minute, Crane,” Abbie protested, batting his hands away from the bag. She turned toward her sister with narrowed eyes. “Where did you find this? How do you know it’s for us?”

“Joe and I stopped by the house this morning on our way here. We didn’t know if you would have left yet, so we thought we'd stop there first.” She pointed to the satchel. “This was on the front porch—with a red bow and a card.”

“Which are…where?” Abbie cocked her head as she looked pointedly at the satchel with a conspicuously absent bow and attached card.

“Oh! Right. Here.” Joe fumbled around with his discarded jacket until he pulled out a partially mangled red bow and trampled, dirty card. “Mrs. Lampert’s cat was playing with it when we came up the walk.” He grimaced as he held out his arms, which were covered in cat scratches. “Jenny sent me after the hell spawn after it took off with the bow.”

Crane frowned. “We ought to get something from the apothecary for those.”

Joe shook his head. “Nah. I’m fine. I slapped some Neosporin on it earlier from the first aid kit in the car.” He held up his hands when Crane's frown merely deepened. “Really, Crane. I’m fine.”

“So, this was on the doorstep,” Abbie said slowly, staring at the leather satchel as if it might bite her or blow up at any second.

“We thought moving it away from the house might be a good plan,” Joe said. “I mean, who knows what could be in it?”

Abbie gave him a look of incredulity. “You don’t know what’s in it, and you were worried about the house, so you thought you’d what? Take it with you in your car?” Abbie smacked Joe in the arm. “Are you crazy?”

“There wasn’t any ticking or any sort of clock or timer that we could see,” Joe began.

Abbie and Crane both still had a look of “how stupid _are_ you?” on their faces, so Jenny hurriedly continued, “I have a buddy who has access to a mail bomb detector. He ran the package through that and said there wasn’t anything metallic inside the box.” She gave them a hesitant smile. “So, we figured, at the very least, that it wasn’t a bomb.”

“A box?” Crane tried peering into the satchel again. 

“A wrapped box,” Jenny said with a nod. “Like a gift.”

The look of consternation was back on Crane’s face as he made a step backward from the bag. “It’s not your birthday,” he said to Abbie unnecessarily and obviously to reassure himself that it truly wasn't.

Jenny hid a smile.

Abbie merely patted his hand. “No,” she said. “Not my birthday and not yours either.” She frowned, looking at the satchel speculatively before holding out her hand to Joe. “Let's see the card.”

Joe handed the card he’d been toying with, along with its dangling bow, to Abbie. Crane immediately hovered over Abbie’s shoulder, reading the card along with her.

“To Agent Mills and Captain Crane,” Abbie began to read. Then, she stopped, her eyes widening. “Captain Crane?” She looked up then, her gaze pinging between Joe and Jenny in agitation. “What the hell?” She looked up, twisting her head toward Crane. “Who knows your military rank, Crane? Who knows?”

Crane blinked rapidly for a couple of seconds, almost as if he were pulling out a mental filing cabinet to rifle through it. “Well, I…you, of course, Lieutenant. And Miss Jenny and Master Corbin.” He paused a moment, frowning. “Captain Irving. Mrs. Irving. Agent Foster…” The pause was longer now as he obviously wracked his memory, searching for someone else who might know his back story. Reluctantly, he finally said, “The Masons knew. Although I can’t imagine that the knowledge of me would have been wide-spread among all the Masons in the area, and many of those men who knew my story specifically from Katrina’s written account were killed by the Horseman of Death.” 

“Damn,” Abbie said, turning her gaze back toward the card in her hand. “Could someone have found Katrina’s account and attached it somehow to you?”

A very grim look crossed Crane’s face. “It is possible, Lieutenant.”

With obvious reluctance, Abbie turned her gaze back to the card to finish reading it. “King’s Gambit accepted.”

“King’s Gambit accepted?” Crane repeated.

“Oh, shit.” Abbie set the card down on the table. “I know what this is.”

“As do I, Lieutenant.”

Both of them stared at the bag as if it were a particularly venomous snake.

“You do?” Joe looked between the two of them, obviously confused. “You guys want to clue us in?”

“The King’s Gambit is one of the most popular opening sallies in the game of chess,” Crane said tightly, his eyes firmly focused on the satchel as Abbie reached inside and pulled out a beautifully wrapped box.

“Okay…” Joe said, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. “And King’s Gambit accepted?”

“Precisely what it says,” Crane replied.

Abbie carefully unwrapped the gift, making great effort to tear the paper as little as possible. She waved at the others to move further back from the table. “Just in case,” she said.

Joe and Jenny took several steps backward, their eyes focused on the box. Crane, God bless him, never moved from Abbie’s side, hovering at the ready.

Abbie opened the lid of the box, but nothing happened. No spurt of gas, no explosion, no nothing. Instead, nestled inside was a multi-squared board and sixteen ornate chess pieces.

“Why do I have a sudden, very bad feeling about this?” Joe asked as he watched Abbie pull out the board and quickly set up the pieces in order.

“I have a similar feeling, Master Corbin,” Crane said, his graceful fingers toying with a black knight piece. “We apparently have opened with the King’s Gambit without realizing it.”

Abbie moved the white pawn in front of the white king forward two squares.

Then, Crane moved the black corresponding pawn the same number of squares.

Then, Abbie took the white pawn in front of the king’s bishop and moved it forward two squares.

“The King’s Gambit,” Crane said, his tone quiet, having lost most of its earlier vigor.

Jenny looked at the board silently for a moment before she said, “And the King’s Gambit accepted?”

Abbie took the black pawn and moved it forward on a diagonal, capturing the white pawn. She rolled the pawn between her fingers for a moment before she set it aside, off of the board.

“So our pawn is captured,” Jenny said as she stared at the board.

“Or killed, depending on how you look at it,” Abbie said, her voice tight.

Joe’s eyes widened as he took in Abbie’s words. “But who’s our pawn?”

“That, Master Corbin, is a question we must determine. With utmost haste,” Crane said, his eyes grim and focused on the chessboard. “With definite utmost haste.”

**************

He was pleased. The uniform fit perfectly. Slender, pale limbs looked lovely against the silver chain mail armor he'd had made to order.

Gently, he traced the symbol on the white placard in the center of the breastplate before he slipped the helmet on the girl's lolling head.

"You fought nobly for your king, my dear. A great sacrifice. And one, I'm sure, that will not go unrewarded."

He gave the girl one last approving look before he lowered the helmet's visor over the girl's wide-open, unseeing eyes.


	2. It is the courage to continue that counts.

The archives had become still and quiet over the last hour. Miss Jenny and Master Corbin had sent themselves off to contact whatever unsavory contacts Miss Jenny had, in order to see if they could procure some information about the person behind the gift of the chess set or about the chess set itself. Agent Foster had been contacted, and she was even now combing the FBI resources to repeat their efforts in the more official, less criminal channels.

The lieutenant was working on a list of all her known acquaintances, friends and family who might potentially be a “pawn” in the game their unknown foe was playing with them.

And he?

Ichabod let out a frustrated sigh.

He had been basically banished to a table to make a list of his own to go along with the lieutenant’s.

He’d finished his list over a half hour ago. The list was, very simply, pathetic.

He had been a compatriot of Washington, Jefferson and Franklin. His father had owned a large swath of countryside in Scotland and had been seated in the House of Lords. He’d had a wide circle of acquaintances, both in England and in America.

And now, what was he? Mostly a joke to the few people he’d met of the lieutenant’s acquaintance. He knew a few of the colonial re-enactors, enough to have a beer at the local tavern with on a Sunday afternoon, and a few folks at the historical society had been friendly.

But he couldn’t be himself with them. Not truly. He couldn’t share memories of his family or his long-dead friends. And explaining Katrina or Jeremy wasn’t even a consideration. The few people at the historical society had accepted his curt “we’re no longer together” explanation when they’d asked about Katrina after he’d returned from his walkabout and hadn’t mentioned her again.

It was hard. So very hard, acclimating to this modern world. It wasn’t even the technology, although sometimes that overwhelmed him with its sheer ubiquitous-ness. But it was this sense of being so very untethered. He didn’t have the cultural American upbringing that all those around him had—the easy assumption of understanding historical events and television jargon and slang words as part of who you were.

He always felt as if he were ten steps behind those around him in the very basics of American life.

And for a man of his intelligence, it grated.

Even now, Ichabod had no real ability to provide anything useful to their investigation. There wasn’t an arcane text he could pull from the shelves to find out details about a supernatural being. He couldn’t consult one of his comforting diaries by Franklin or Jefferson to provide insight and aid to the lieutenant. He had no past history that might shed light on their current dilemma.

He was useless.

He couldn’t bear being useless. It was already difficult enough to be more or less dependent on the lieutenant for just about all his daily needs. He’d done all he could to try to even the scales—cooking, cleaning, laundry, running errands—doing everything he could to alleviate some of the lieutenant’s life burdens.

But that still didn’t bring in money.

And not being an official American citizen meant he couldn’t work anywhere openly and honestly. Captain Irving had paid him “under the table” for his consulting work with the Sleepy Hollow police department, but they hadn’t wanted to risk any further trouble with Sherriff Reyes, so they hadn’t pursued monetary reimbursement from her.

And Ichabod had no intention of even bringing up the subject in so far as the FBI was concerned. He had no desire to cause trouble for the lieutenant, and he knew how much she had wanted the position and respect her career at the FBI would give her. That was already jeopardized enough because of the duties they had as witnesses. He would not make it worse for her by asking her to assist him with his employment woes.

He also knew it would likely be a fruitless effort, as Daniel Reynolds was not his biggest admirer. A frown etched between his brows as he thought of the lieutenant’s superior officer. The too achingly familiar crawl of jealousy skittled down his spine.

Daniel Reynolds was everything he was not. An official American by birth, steeped in the current culture. He was always dressed well in the current 21st century style, had a good turn of figure, and was, he had to admit, handsome of face. He had a solid, excellent job, a career that was progressing nicely, and plenty of disposable income.

He also didn’t have to fight against racial, cultural and time differences—and he didn’t have a fraught and fractured history with the lieutenant. No dead witch wives, no sons or ex-best friends who were horsemen of the apocalypse, no extended walkabouts of grief that had played into the lieutenant’s deep seated fear of abandonment.

Ichabod’s fingers tightened around the edge of the paper in front of him. The only advantage he had over Agent Reynolds was that he was a witness. And being a damned witness meant a focus on duty—on fighting a war and being a soldier.

And he knew all too well what it meant to put duty above all—how deep and painful the cost could be.

_Why?_ His inner voice raged. _Why must it always be duty first? Do I get nothing for standing up for what is right and fighting evil? Nothing but a vague promise of death and then Heaven at the end of it all? Is there nothing here on earth? Must I give up everything for You? My family, my friends, my life, my position, my dignity? And for what? To watch Daniel fucking Reynolds take her away, too?_

The paper crumpled underneath his hands, and it took him several moments before he even noticed a small hand on his, gently unclenching his fingers from the paper.

“Now, what did that paper ever do to you?” The lieutenant’s voice was low and teasing, but as he came back to himself, and he glanced up at her, he could see the worry creasing her forehead and the concern warming her dark brown eyes.

Ichabod’s mind went blank as he stared at her. It seemed to do that more and more often as of late. He had an eidetic memory, and yet, it seemed that the lieutenant was like a prism, always reflecting new light in different ways. He never could fully grasp her essence in his memory. She was his eternal challenge. His infuriating, amazing, glorious challenge.

He took a moment to stare down at the paper in front of him, forcing himself to unclench the paper and to give himself a moment to recuperate from his thoughts. “I…it is nothing, Lieutenant,” he said softly.

“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me,” she insisted. She gently took the paper out of his hands and glanced through it. “Looks like you covered everyone pretty thoroughly.”

He couldn’t help a scoffing laugh.

“What?” she asked. Abbie set the paper down on the desk and put a finger under his chin, forcing him to look up at her. “What's eating at you, Crane?”

Ichabod paused for a few moments, battling within himself as to how much he should confess to the lieutenant. She already carried so much weight on her slim shoulders. It was always an agony determining how much more he could, with good conscience, give her to bear.

“Don’t do that,” she said, her voice firm and nonsense. “We are _partners_ , Crane.” She rapped her hand on the table. “We don’t get the luxury of hiding the truth from each other. Not if we want to win this war.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about honesty?” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Tell me.”

He sighed, running his hands through his hair and ruffling it. “It’s so puerile, Lieutenant. I am reluctant to even mention it because it is so inconsequential to what we are trying to do.”

“If it’s so inconsequential, then why are you so upset?” she said matter-of-factly.

“Because I…” He pressed his lips together. Finally, he closed his eyes, said a brief prayer to whomever it was who listened to fools like him, and then reopened his eyes and said, “My list is remarkable in its brevity, Lieutenant.”

Ichabod pushed the paper petulantly over to Abbie. “I know it’s ridiculous. And I should actually be grateful that there are so few people who could be pulled into being a pawn for this person, whomever he or she is. And considering the fact that knowing me has already led to the deaths of two of my innocent 21st century friends, I should be doubly glad that I have so few remaining.”

Abbie’s face softened. “Crane,” she said, her voice so very gentle.

So gentle that Ichabod flinched. He moved ever so slightly away from her. He did not want pity. Never pity. Never from her.

“You told me one time that you had seven close friends back in your day,” she said, “and that four of those died.”

“I recall,” he said, still not looking at her, but at the crumpled sheet in front of him.

“Is it really so different, then?” Abbie paused a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. “You’re a man who takes time and effort in picking the right kind of friend. There’s nothing wrong with that.” She pointed to the top of his list where her, Jenny’s, Joe’s and Frank Irving’s names were written in his old-fashioned scrawl. “You’ve got four close friends now. Right there. More than most people ever have.” She gave him a small smile. “And that doesn’t include the seven people who were your close friends back in the 1700s.”

And once again, Abbie had pulled him up out of the mire of his self-pity and depression and put him on an even keel again. His lips quirked up ever so slightly. “My friends would have liked you,” he said.

“Franklin _did_ like me,” she shot back, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Of course he did. You're an attractive, breathing woman,” Ichabod said, rolling his eyes. He then arched an imperious eyebrow at her. “But you do not seriously think I included Franklin as one of the seven, do you?”

Abbie’s smile widened into a grin at that. But before she could say anything else, her cell phone rang, interrupting their back and forth. She walked back over to where her phone lay on the other table, picked it up, grimaced slightly as she looked at the number, and then answered it. “Agent Mills.”

Ichabod frowned slightly at the way in which she’d answered her phone. Surely she wasn’t going to get called away to a case now. Not when everything here was so urgent and the lieutenant so necessary.

“What? I…no, sir. I. No. We’ll be there right away. Yes, sir.” She looked up then at him, her eyes grim. “I’ll bring Captain Crane, sir. Yes.”

Ichabod’s eyes rounded at that. Questions peppered his mind, practically falling over each other in an effort to burst out of his mouth.

Abbie held up a finger and shook her head slightly. “Yes, sir. I can reach him quickly. No, it’s not a problem. Thank you for letting me know.”

With those final words, she clicked off the phone and set it down on the table.

“Lieutenant, what’s happened? What’s wrong?” Ichabod was already rising, grabbing his coat from where he’d draped it across the chair next to him. He slid his arms into its sleeves, relishing the comfort of its worn, woolen cloth. It steadied him somehow. An old relic, like him.

“They’ve found a body,” she said, biting out the words in an angry staccato.

“Oh, dear Heaven,” he said, anxiety climbing up through him. “It’s from our mysterious benefactor, yes?”

She nodded, not saying more.

“How did they know to call you?” he asked, his voice suddenly dry. “And my name?”

“A calling card left with the body,” she said. “Addressed to us.”

“Who is it?” he asked, afraid now, seeing the look on her face. “Someone one of us knows, right? Someone on our lists?”

Abbie nodded again, a short, brief nod.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Lieutenant,” he said as he strode across the room toward her, his boots loud against the wooden floor. “Who is it?”

She looked up at him, regret etching her face. “I’m so sorry, Crane.”

Panic surged through him. So it was yet another of his very few friends in Sleepy Hollow. He swallowed hard, his hand outstretched. “Please, Lieutenant.”

“It’s Zoe Corinth, Crane. Zoe.”

Crane closed his eyes and bowed his head, a strange mixture of grief and anger tightening his chest. He ran a trembling hand through his hair.

“We’re going to get this ass, Crane,” Abbie said, her voice fierce and angry. “We’re going to get him; do you understand?”

Ichabod exhaled and then took another deep breath in. It didn’t matter how many friends he’d lost in this never ending war. It never got easier. Not ever. And Zoe. God. Poor Zoe. First the kindred, and now this. It was so bloody unfair.

“They want us to come down to the police station for questioning. The police called the FBI because my name was mentioned on the card. The FBI is leaving it in the Sleepy Hollow PD's hands for now, since they don’t have an official reason to investigate it yet. But Danny wants updates. And they’ll step in, if the police ask them to.”

Ichabod nodded, not liking the idea of Daniel Reynolds being anywhere near this case. Not as the lieutenant’s commanding officer and certainly not as…

His mind closed at the thought, and he forcibly turned his attention to the problem at hand. “Let us not tarry, then, Lieutenant,” he said quietly.

Abbie gave him one of her long, searching looks before she finally nodded, grabbed her coat, and the two of them headed out of the archives.


	3. There are no takebacks.  You must think before you move.

Crane hadn’t said a word on the short journey from the archives to the Sleepy Hollow Police Department. He’d had that look of his on his face—the stiff upper lip, stoic, British one that meant he was suffering greatly and trying to hide it.

Abbie hated that look.

It had been so hard for her, when she’d returned from the Catacombs, to adjust back to life in the mad, noisy world of America. Everything was loud, bright and so hard to grasp. She’d focused so hard on just trying to hold onto her sanity in that other dimension that she’d forgotten how to look outward and to concentrate on anything else.

She’d never realized how truly horrifying it must have been for Crane to awaken in 2013. It had been easy to marvel at the difference in him when she’d traveled back to 1781. He’d been so much calmer. So determined, so logical.

She had been able to see why he’d been so trusted back then and put in charge of so many secrets. He commanded respect, and the intelligence she knew was lurking behind those blue eyes was so very evident in each calculated move he made. Everything about him was buttoned down tight and in perfect order.

Now that she’d returned from the Catacombs, so many things she'd never understood for made sense. Crane was, in many ways, like the old coat he clung to. The seams were fraying, and what was underneath seemed to escape in bursts and fits of energy he seemed to have no control over.

Those elegant hands of his were always moving. Waving, gesturing, shaking, or, as they were now, clenched tight. He was rarely, if ever, still.

No matter how hard he tried, Crane couldn’t keep himself under that firm determination and control he'd once had. The 21st century had broken him, in many ways, much as the Catacombs had broken her.

Working together on dealing with the symbol she’d become so addicted to had helped ground her. Bring her back to reality.

She’d always felt as if she were the earth, the rock that kept Crane anchored. And yet, when she had so desperately needed him to be _her_ rock, he’d stepped in, no questions asked. And the Captain Crane who’d been such a steady force for the colonial patriots had been hers.

A surge of affection overwhelmed her as she hurried along, trying to keep up with Crane’s long-legged stride. Usually, he was so careful to measure his steps to hers, but she knew his mind was elsewhere. And all she wanted, in that moment, to do was to reassure him. To make him see that they would solve this. That they would beat this.

“Crane,” she said, grabbing his arm, forcing him to stutter to a stop. 

He hesitated, as if urgently wanting to press forward but being stopped by his innate chivalry and politeness. Crane looked down at her, his blue eyes turbulent with unexpressed emotion.

She squeezed his arm. “We will find him.” Her voice was low and husky as she met his gaze. “We _will_ find him, Crane.”

Abbie meant only to comfort him—to let him know that she was ever on his side. But something shifted in the blue-eyed gaze that locked with hers. Something unsettling. Something almost…hungry.

Abbie blinked rapidly for a couple of moments, and then his gaze shifted away from hers as he gently extricated his arm from under her hand and gave her a firm nod. “Quite.”

Crane quickly ascended the steps to the entrance to the police station and held the door open for her, not meeting her gaze as he gestured at her to precede him inside.

She swallowed, her hands twitching ever so slightly as if they’d been deprived of something important. Abbie exhaled, letting her hands fall to her sides, and then walked past Crane into the police station.

It was a little surreal stepping into the place that had once been a second home to her. Several of the officers she knew waved or yelled out a “Hey, Mills!” as they went about their business. She smiled and gave a wave back as she headed down the corridor.

Abbie grabbed a hold of Crane’s arm again as they walked, “Let’s try to get as much information as we can from them.”

Crane’s arm underneath her hand stiffened. Abbie looked up then to see Luke Morales leaning up against the entryway to the bullpen. 

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t FBI Agent Mills and Captain Crane,” he drawled.

_Shit._ Crane was already a mess because of Zoe Corinth’s murder. The last thing they needed right now was for Crane to go off on Morales.

Abbie knew Luke Morales detested Crane because he was jealous of him and Crane’s relationship with her. Stupid, idiotic and jealous. And Crane was like any other man who’d been challenged and pushed. Annoyed, unwilling to back down, and all too ready to push back.

“We’re here to see the sheriff, Luke,” Abbie said evenly, not letting her tone give the man any ammunition. 

“Yes, I know,” he replied. A not-so-very-nice smile curved his lips. “Sheriff Reyes is waiting for you, Abbie.” He then moved away from the wall, straightening. “And I’m to question Captain Crane.”

Crane still hadn’t said a word. Abbie’s gaze flicked up to his. Crane was still tense as all get out as his muscle rippled underneath her hand, but his face was a complete blank—showing no emotion whatsoever.

It frightened her a little, being unable to read him. Even the version of Crane from 1781, as buttoned down as he was, was still her emotional, come-in-with-words-ablazin’ guy. Crane didn’t do stoic reserve well. He just didn’t.

“Crane?” she asked in a low voice.

Crane didn’t respond for a moment or two before he slid a glance at her. “I’m fine, Lieutenant. Go find Sheriff Reyes. We can rendezvous back here when we are both finished with our discussions with the police.”

Abbie didn’t like the idea of separating from Crane at all. It was a common police tactic, when interviewing suspects, to interview them separately and to get them to make mistakes and highlight inconsistencies between their stories. It made her heart stutter a bit, thinking that this was not going to be a session of talking with Sheriff Reyes to get some intel on what happened as a meeting of the minds, but a serious question and answer session, designed to see if either of them had any responsibility for Zoe Corinth’s death.

She tightened her grip on Crane’s arm. “You realize,” she whispered, “that they’re going to question you about Zoe. This isn’t a walk in the park, Crane.”

And with that, she finally succeeded in getting through to the Crane she knew and…

Her mind snapped closed at the thought and refused to finish the sentence. The Crane she _knew_. 

He gave her one of his best sneers. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Lieutenant.”

And that was the understatement of the century.

Her lips twitched despite the seriousness of the situation. “Are you sure you’ve got this?”

“I’m fine, Lieutenant. Just. Fine.”

“The two of you done with your little…” Luke made some sort of gesture toward them. “…whatever this is?”

Based on the look on Luke’s face, and the dagger stare he had on Abbie’s hand resting on Crane’s arm, Abbie knew Crane was in for a very rough time of it.

But Luke was such an ass, that if she said anything right now, or made a big deal about his behavior, things would only be worse for Crane during his interrogation.

Abbie wasn’t, however, going to give Luke the satisfaction of a reply. She squeezed Crane’s arm and said quietly, “I’ll meet you back here when we’re both done.” 

He looked briefly down at her, and she caught his gaze with a determined look of her own. “I want that eidetic memory of yours keeping track of everything he says.”

Crane’s lips quirked up on one side as he murmured, “It’s not like I have a choice in the matter, Lieutenant.”

“I’m serious, Crane,” she hissed back at him.

“I know. I will,” he promised her. Gently, he patted her hand before moving forward with a determined stride, forcing her to let go of him. “Detective Morales, please lead on.”

Luke smirked at him but did not otherwise reply. Abbie watched Crane follow Luke down the hallway and disappear around the corner toward the interrogation rooms. With a sigh and a brief half-prayer upward, Abbie walked the short distance to the sheriff’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come!” was the brusque reply to the knock.

Abbie entered the room, tried to find a smile, but found that the effort was beyond her. So, instead, she gave the other woman a Crane nod of the head. “Sheriff Reyes,” she said, closing the door behind her. 

“Mills,” the older woman said, looking up from where she sat behind her desk. “It’s nice to see you. Too bad it couldn’t be under better circumstances.” She waved toward the chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

Abbie sat down in the proffered chair, already on edge and worried. If Reyes was good cop, she didn’t want to know what Crane was going to suffer under Luke, the bad cop.

“I see the FBI has sent you down to help us with our investigation in Miss Corinth’s murder,” Reyes began.

“My supervisor mentioned that you had some questions for Crane and me,” she said, shifting slightly as she crossed her legs.

“Speaking of Mr. Crane, where is he?” Reyes asked.

“Luke, uh, Detective Morales took him into one of the interrogation rooms for questioning,” Abbie replied, her dark gaze watching Reyes for any reaction.

“Ah, all right, good.” Reyes then turned to a pad of paper she had on her desk, that seemed to be covered with some sort of notes. She picked up a pen and then gave Abbie a smile. “This is an informal sort of thing, Mills. I’m sure you know the drill.”

There really wasn’t any normal, informal questioning when it came to Ichabod Crane. Abbie tamped down on the anxious desire to leap up from her seat and run into the interrogation room. It seemed like all her mind could do was focus on Crane and wonder how he was doing. _Chill out, Abbie. He’ll be fine. He can handle himself._

The questioning look on Reyes’ face made Abbie suddenly realize that the woman was expecting some sort of answer or response. She nodded then, adding, “Ma’am.”

“Let’s just get a few things out of the way,” Reyes said, glancing down at her pad of paper. “Can you give me a brief account of the last 24 hours?”

Abbie made a quick mental note. Zoe had died within the last 24 hours.

“Well, nothing very exciting. I spent most of the day yesterday in the office catching up on some reports. I got there first thing in the morning. Around nine. And I was there until well after six.”

Abbie didn’t mention that focusing on the boring reports she had to write for her job had been another exercise in getting her mind off the strange symbol she’d been focused on in the Catacombs. The normalcy of the office environment and the chatter of people at the FBI field office had helped. Crane and she had both agreed that non-supernatural work would give her mind an alternative to its obsession with the symbol.

Her being there, however great it was for her alibi, didn’t help Crane with his. 

The thought made her frown. 

“Okay, and how about later?” Reyes wasn’t looking up at her in that moment but scribbling a few notes down on her notepad.

Abbie shook her head as if to clear it. _Focus, Mills. Focus._

“I left work somewhere between six and six-thirty and got home around seven.” She took a deep breath. “Crane was home, and we cooked dinner.”

“Right,” Reyes said, as she looked up from her pad of paper. “You’re living together now, yes?”

The words to defend herself and her relationship, such that it was, with Crane bubbled on the tip of her tongue, but she refused to let them out. _Don’t offer her anything she doesn’t ask for._

Instead, Abbie just said simply, “Yes.”

Reyes studied her for several moments. Abbie hoped nothing showed in her face. She was good at not revealing her feelings. She’d had years and years of practice.

But it seemed that Crane, with his determination to push through the walls she’d erected to protect herself, had left her with this strange inability to keep up that reserve when the subject was him.

It took every ounce of willpower she had to remain calm and still in the chair and keep the polite look on her face. _God, I want to know what he’s doing right now._

But Reyes didn’t go further with questions about Crane. Instead, she merely asked, “Were you in all evening, then?”

Abbie nodded. “We had dinner, played a game of chess…”

Reyes’ gaze sharpened then. “Chess?”

Abbie silently cursed her mouth. Outwardly, she nodded. “Crane and I both enjoy the game. We often play together.”

“I see,” Reyes said, her tone very non-committal. “And are both of you good at the game?”

Abbie hesitated, considering her answer carefully. “I’d say we’re both decent at the game. Neither of us are chess masters.”

“Good enough to know the names of famous chess moves?” Reyes asked her, an eyebrow raising up as she spoke.

“You don’t have to be a good chess player to know the names of famous chess moves,” Abbie pointed out, deflecting the question.

“But is your average Joe who doesn’t play chess going to know the names of famous chess moves?”

Abbie shrugged. “People know all sorts of crazy things.”

“Would you say that you and Crane are the sort of players to know the names of famous chess moves?”

Abbie paused a moment before she spoke, feeling as if she were actually staring at a chess board, determining moves upon it, trying to protect her king from Reyes' onslaught. “I know a lot of them, yes,” she admitted.

“And Mr. Crane?”

“Yes. Although how many, I couldn’t tell you. You’d have to ask him.”

“He’ll be asked.” Reyes then wrote a few more notes on her notepad before looking back up and gestured for her to continue. “So you ate dinner, played chess, …”

Abbie could hear the “dot-dot-dot” at the end of Sheriff Reyes’ sentence. It would be easy. So very easy. Just a few turns of phrase would make the woman think that Crane had spent the night in her bed. Just a few turns of phrase to give him a solid alibi until Joe and Jenny had seen them together in the archives that morning.

But she just couldn’t do it.

Not because she had any qualms about doing what she needed to do to protect Crane. Not a one. She'd lie to the Pope himself.

But Crane wouldn’t back up her story.

He’d refuse to impugn her honor.

In fact, she doubted, if he even _had_ been in her bed, that he’d admit to it. For all his posturing, Crane was an intensely private man about his personal life. The last thing he’d do, were he having sex with someone, is talk about it. 

Although she was certain he’d talk _during_ it. A lot.

_“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” His breath was a harsh, low whisper against her ear. He pressed his hips into her, right where she wanted it most._

_“Crane,” she begged, the sharp spiral of desire inside pushing her against him, loving every twist of his hips against hers._

_“Every minute of every day.” He bit down softly on her earlobe, sending a shiver through her. “My imagination is extremely clever and inventive, Lieutenant.” A long, slow lick along her jaw had her moaning, but she couldn’t reach him to do any of the touching she wanted to do to him. Not with those magical hands of his pressing hers into the wall behind her._

_“I’m going to get you for this, Crane,” she warned him, her voice sounding harsh and raspy to her own ears._

_“I’m counting on it, Abbie,” he whispered, swirling his hips into hers once more before his mouth descended toward hers. “I’m fucking counting on it.”_

Abbie blinked. _God._ She shifted again in the chair, trying to give herself a bit of relief from the sudden discomfort she felt. _Get a grip on yourself!_

Fantasizing about Crane was one thing. Doing it in the middle of a god-damned interrogation was another. She swallowed, trying to moisten her suddenly dry throat before she said, “We, uh, had a couple of beers and talked for a while.” She tried to focus her mind on what had occurred the night before, willing her body to calm down. “And then we went to bed.” Her eyes narrowed. She couldn’t help it. “Separately.”

Reyes lifted an eyebrow but didn’t make a comment. “Anything else?”

“I woke up this morning, got dressed, and had breakfast. Crane joined me after I was in the kitchen making breakfast. And we left to go run errands. We met my sister and her boyfriend after that for a bit before we got the call to come here.” Abbie shrugged. “Not very interesting, but that’s how my life is.” She gave her a half-smile. “Not very interesting.”

She’d killed the Jersey Devil with a lightning rod a couple of weeks ago, but that was then. Now? A quiet night at home with the partner.

_Think dull, Sheriff. Uninteresting. She’s not even having bed-breaking sex with the hot British guy._

It was even more difficult to keep the frown off her face at the thought. 

But this didn’t appear to faze the sheriff. The older woman made a few more notes on her pad of paper and then set the pad down.

Abbie nearly let out a sigh of relief, thinking that the questioning might be coming to an end.

But that was all shot to hell when she heard the next question.

“I’ve done a little digging into Mr. Crane,” Reyes said quietly. “Or should I say Captain Crane?”

Abbie froze for a brief moment before she straightened a bit in her chair, cocked her head, and asked, “Oh?”

“He’s been in Sleepy Hollow now for…what? Three years or so?” At Abbie’s nod, Reyes leaned back in her chair, giving her a speculative look. “He showed up in town, out of nowhere.” She tapped her computer screen. “The first night anyone saw him he was found roaming around in the middle of the street. Detective Brooks thought he’d murdered Sheriff Corbin.”

Abbie had never been so thankful for her dark skin in her life. It didn’t show her blushes, and it was difficult to notice that she’d gone white as a sheet, in a figurative sort of way, even though, she was more than a little uncertain whether or not she had actually turned white in that moment.

She couldn’t reply. She knew what was coming, and she couldn’t reply. Crane was supposed to be a god-damned spy for General Washington, and he’d sung like a canary the first night he’d shown up in Sleepy Hollow. All about being a spy for the colonial army in the 1700s.

Granted, the man had just been put through the trauma of waking up after having been buried alive for 232 years, was nearly mowed down by a semi-truck, had had his entire world upended, and then had been arrested for circumstantial reasons, hauled into jail, and been interrogated with a lie detector machine without the benefit of a lawyer.

Any man would have been a little rattled after a day like that.

It wasn’t the department’s finest hour either.

But they weren’t going to see that. Oh, no. They were going to see a man with a break from reality. Who still dressed like a colonial re-enactor. A man with a fake passport, no connections in England, and a life that only began, as far as anyone could trace, in 2013.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

“Crane was cleared of that murder,” she said, immediately going on the offense. “He didn’t murder August Corbin.”

“He was.” Reyes narrowed her gaze. “...by Frank Irving--who then went to jail for the murders of a priest and a fellow police officer.”

“Captain Irving was cleared of those murders,” she protested. 

Reyes gave her a look that said “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Her desperation began to grow. “And Andy Brooks confessed,” Abbie shot back.

“Andy Brooks was going to confess…something. We’ll never know what, because he died himself before he could speak to anyone.” Reyes pursed her lips. “A lot of people around Ichabod Crane die.”

_Oh, my God._

“A lot of people die around _me_ ,” Abbie snapped, her temper finally getting the better of her. “Do you think _I_ killed August Corbin? I was there that night.”

“Sheriff Corbin’s death is an ongoing investigation. But it’s not the one I’m focused on right now,” Reyes replied, adeptly avoiding her question. “Zoe Corinth is the one I’m concerned with.” She frowned at Abbie. “You knew Miss Corinth, I presume?”

Abbie inhaled, giving the older woman a slight nod. “Enough to say hello to,” she replied.

“And you knew her…how?”

Abbie’s lips tightened. Somehow, some way, a noose was being tied around Crane’s neck. And she didn’t know how to stop it. A desperate, clawing need to get to him, to get him out of the interrogation room and away from Luke was tearing through her.

She managed to bite out, “Crane introduced us. She worked with the historical society. They both are…were…into that stuff. They were friends.”

“I see.” Reyes raised an eyebrow at her. “You have a rather different opinion of their relationship than her family does. I understand from them that she and Crane were in a romantic relationship. They seemed to be under the impression that she was fairly serious about him.” Reyes paused for a brief moment, likely getting ready to push the knife in a bit further. “And here I thought he was married.” She spread her hands out in front of her. “But now he’s living with you and dating her on the side.” Reyes sat back in her chair, her eyes like lasers, focused on Abbie. “And no one has seen his wife in months.”

_Fucking hell._

“What do you want from me?” Abbie ground out, her dark eyes blazing.

“Some real answers, Mills.” Reyes threw her a disgusted look. “How the hell did you get mixed up with a man like this?”

There was nothing, absolutely nothing Abbie could say. No defense she could make for Crane that wouldn’t have them sending her to Tarrytown Psychiatric. And there was no information she was going to get from the Sleepy Hollow police willingly. Nothing that would help them with the madman whose damned chess game was already a living nightmare.

“Do you have any more questions for me specifically about Zoe Corinth’s murder, Sheriff?” she asked. “Because if you don’t, I’m done answering questions.”

“If I were you, I’d think long and hard about my relationship with Ichabod Crane, Mills.” She pursed her lips before saying, “You’re too smart for this. Too smart.”

“Any further questions, I want a lawyer,” Abbie replied, her voice flat. Then, she rose to her feet, and without another word, she left Sheriff Reyes’ office.

_God, oh, God, oh, God._ Abbie swept her gaze down the hallway, looking for Crane. 

It was empty.

At that point, all Abbie could think about was getting to Crane. If her interview had gone to hell, she couldn’t even imagine how Crane’s had gone.

She took off in a walk so fast that for anyone else, it’d be called a run. She pushed through the door into the listening room off of the interrogation room, startling the officer who was recording the interview.

“Mills?”

But she ignored him, focused on the door into the interrogation room. Abbie pushed open the door before the officer could stop her and burst into the room, turning both sets of eyes of the men inside the room toward her.

“We’re leaving, Crane. Now.”

Crane studied her for several seconds, taking in, she was sure, every aspect of her ready-to-blow self. His lips tightened, he nodded, and he immediately rose from his chair.

“We’re not done, Captain Crane,” Luke bit out.

Crane slid him a glance. “Yes, I think we are.” His words were quiet but had an authority Abbie recognized from the 1781 version of Crane.

He followed her out of the room and down the hall, his long strides easily keeping up with hers.

The bullpen was all agog, staring at the two of them as they passed.

Staring at Crane. Everyone always was staring at Crane. A man who’d fought so they could sit there on their sanctimonious asses and judge him. A man who was still fighting to keep danger away from them and their families. Giving up _everything_ for a bunch of people who didn't deserve it.

_Fuck them. Fuck them all._

Abbie suddenly slowed her pace and looked up at Crane. He was looking down at her, concern etched in the sharp planes of his face. Worried about _her_. His ass in the sling, and he was only worried about _her_.

In that moment, she saw Luke come out of the interrogation room in the corner of her eye. He scowled at them, looking as if he could spit nails.

Abbie simply reached over, grabbed Ichabod’s hand and threaded her fingers through his.

It startled him. She could tell it.

But she didn’t care. 

She wanted the Sleepy Hollow Police Department to know exactly whose side she was on.

Abbie squeezed his hand tightly, and finally, _finally_ , his fingers closed around hers.

And together, the two of them left the police department behind them.


	4. Silence's Siren Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little piece as a bridge between the last chapter and the next one. I started on this chapter, thinking it'd be longer, but it turned out that the sentiment in this little scene needed to be on its own. So I'm posting this and then going back to work on the next one. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that latest episode. Yeah. :P
> 
> That hasn’t happened here. 
> 
> The 48-hour end of the world thing would definitely take precedence over this smaller mystery, so no to that.
> 
> And that end bit with Abbie and Danny…no.
> 
> So, just wipe it from your mind and pretend it didn’t happen here. A safe space, this story. *grin*

He hadn’t held her hand. Not like this. Not with the warm intimacy of fingers entwined and palms pressed against each other in the manner of romantic couples in this strange new time he’d found himself in.

The only time he’d held her hand like this was when they’d entered Purgatory. And that hadn’t been romantic. Not really. It’d been him scrambling to reach for his anchor, his rock, his steady force in the face of the unknown. His hand had shaken as it had taken hers, and somehow, the feel of her fingers closing around his had eased his terror to a level where he could walk forward into Purgatory and not run screaming in the opposite direction.

Ichabod wondered if he was providing her with that kind of steadiness at that moment. _What the devil had happened to her when she’d talked to Sheriff Reyes?_ “Lieutenant,” he said softly.

Abbie shook her head. “Not here. Not yet.”

Everything about the lieutenant was pure tension at that moment: her shoulders hunched, her eyes alert and wary, and her stride so quick that he almost had to lengthen his own to keep up with her.

He frowned, tempted to open his mouth to protest and demand answers, but she held up a finger, a finger he duly recognized as an imitation of his own in similar circumstances.

Ichabod pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and nodded. Abbie’s hand remained tightly gripped around his. 

If she wasn’t going to do anything about changing that fact, he certainly wasn’t.

Instead of protesting and arguing with her, Ichabod took a few brief moments to enjoy the simple pleasure of her hand in his.

And truly, it was this that he missed most about his own time--the subtleties of a glance or a touch; an entire wealth of feeling being communicated by the flutter of a fan.

So much in this strange, loud, insane, modern world was about breaking down barriers--of crashing down walls so that everything about you was on display to a mind-boggling degree. People hurled invective at each other in the streets and on the Internet. People poured out their problems in advice columns in the newspaper and in “tell all” interviews on camera. Clothes came off on television and films and in parades and protests that were all recorded on YouTube. The screams of people, trying desperately to be heard, reverberated throughout the country--nay, even the world---and no matter how loud they were, no one voice could be heard over the others due to the overwhelming cacophony of sound.

There was a stark beauty in the discordant sounds around him that made up a angry, sometimes desperately sad, swelling human symphony. He had no problem admitting that. But there were times that he desperately missed the understated, the quiet, the mysterious—the ability to speak in languages of subtext and silence. The peace of stillness.

Moments like these were so rare in this modern America.

So, even if the lieutenant jerked her hand away in the next second, he would enjoy _this_ second, _this_ moment—where nothing mattered but the silent harmony of their hurried walk together and the feel of her calloused, battle-scarred hand in his.


	5. Breath is the link between mind and body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a struggle with the whole idea of the archives and Team Witness kind of merrily going in and out of there with no one questioning them. In both seasons, they’re caught in there (first by Frank Irving and then by Sheriff Reyes), and Jenny is actually arrested for having weapons. It’s technically the police archives with police related matter inside there.
> 
> And then there was the issue of Crane trying to save the archives by getting it declared a national landmark (something that really never went anywhere after Abbie went into the Catacombs).
> 
> I did see posted on one of the writer’s Twitter accounts that Joe apparently bought the building the archives was housed in, preventing it from being torn down. So, another Corbin saves the day. ;)
> 
> So, this chapter is operating under the idea that Joe Corbin owns the building that houses the archives, but they still make an effort to come into the building surreptitiously through the tunnels to prevent eyes on their coming and going into what still is, technically, an archive belonging to the Sleepy Hollow Police Department.

Abbie kept them both walking for a good way, leaving the police station in the dust, and heading for her car. 

Usually, the four of them parked their vehicles in unobtrusive places near to known entrances to the tunnel system that ran underneath Sleepy Hollow.

Now that she was no longer on the police force and none of them had the slightest reason to be in the Archives, they tried to be more careful with their entrances and exits from the building.

And after her interview with Reyes today, Abbie wanted no one to see Crane and her cross the street and enter the Archives. Sheriff Reyes had already arrested Jenny once when she’d happened upon her there. Abbie was not interested in taking further chances. Not at this point.

Crane was oddly silent as he walked along next to her. She sneaked a glance at him. There wasn’t an ounce of his normal tension and activity present in the man at that moment. He seemed, weirdly enough, at peace.

Which made no sense to her at all. She herself was crawling with anxiety and a growing sense of paranoia about who would be sent to follow them once they’d left the police station.

It would be hard for them to openly tail them at this point, considering that she knew all the police officers from the Sleepy Hollow PD by sight, and Crane, with his eidetic memory, would be able to recall anyone he’d seen even just once before as well.

Right now, she wanted to get them somewhere they could talk—free of the burden of being actively followed on foot, and where no one could actively listen to their conversation.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t trust that any of their normal places weren’t compromised. Not until she’d swept them for listening devices. 

Her throat closed at the thought of it. 

As they neared her car, she tightened her grip around Crane’s hand and tugged on it to encourage him to stop and to bend his head down to where she could murmur in his ear.

“We are going on a drive. Don’t say a word about Zoe or her killer or the chessboard in the car.” She glanced anxiously over at her car. “They may have put some sort of bug in my car.”

Crane got a bit of the perplexed look on his face that he always got when he was processing modern day terms with which he wasn’t familiar.

Crane was endlessly fascinated with the varied technology that was available in the modern era. He loved his cell phone, driving was one of his favorite things to do, and he and Joe often spent an evening together shooting fake zombies on the X-Box. He was doing better with using the Internet for research, although his inner old-world professor never let him stray too far from his beloved books.

It gave her a bit of a pang to realize that Crane rarely had moments anymore where he didn’t understand a modern term. He’d acclimated in so many ways, putting his endlessly curious and stubbornly persistent brain to the task like he did almost everything else.

And yet, there were still moments that she was reminded very firmly that the 21st century was not his native culture and home, and that there always was a little translating going on behind his vivid blue eyes before he jumped into a discussion or laughed at a joke.

Crane had obviously reached the end of his frantic brain searching, not recalling the term. The little frown he always got in those situations was etched between his eyebrows.

If there was anything Crane hated, it was not knowing something.

It was easy to relish in the few things that Crane didn’t know. Especially because those things were so rare. And, she had to admit, part of it was because he was so damned smug when he had the answer to something.

But today, it was more important that he be on the same page as she was. Teasing him about his lack of knowledge was not.

“Electronic listening device. It’s a little microphone that will pick up what you say. It’s broadcast away from where you are. Like a TV, but no picture.”

“They’ve put something like this in your _car_?” Crane sounded completely appalled. “I thought the Constitution protected against such things. The fourth amendment clearly says…”

Abbie shook her head and held up her hand to stem the rant she could see building up inside him. “I’ll explain it later. Or you can look it up on the Internet.” She pulled him to a stop in front of her car. “Point is-- we need to go somewhere where we can be sure they won’t be listening to us.”

He gave her a considering look before he gave her a decisive nod. “Indeed.” Then, he hesitated a moment before continuing, “Where should we go?”

Abbie hesitated, her mind throwing up ideas and then just as quickly rejecting them. Their home, Corbin’s cabin, or Jenny’s trailer were out. The Archives, obviously, were out. A public place had too many opportunities for random innocent people to overhear their discussion. So, no library, no shopping mall, no restaurants, no gym.

Narrowing down the options left Abbie with the only one she could think of where they’d be guaranteed privacy for a period of time, where no one could anticipate they’d be, and they’d have quiet and comfort.

Abbie bit her lip. _A hotel? In the middle of the day? Do you know what they’ll think?_

_What_ they’ll _think? Isn’t it what_ you’re _thinking, Abbie?_

The thought scuttled through her head and horrified her. She looked up at Crane, whose expressions rapidly changed as he obviously also was suggesting ideas to himself and rejecting them. 

Abbie swallowed, trying to gather up enough courage to make her suggestion, when Crane’s expression settled on one of triumphant discovery. “Lieutenant!” he crowed, delighted with himself.

She raised an eyebrow at him. She couldn’t help it. It was the way of them. She couldn't just accept his triumph at face value or even the relief that coursed through her at not having to suggest what she had come up with. “What?” she demanded.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Bear Mountain. We can hike along one of the trails there.” Crane paused a moment and then lowered his voice further. “We would likely be alone at this time of year. Not so many hikers during the cooler weather.”

Abbie barely heard the words Crane had said. All she could concentrate on was the radiating warmth of his nearness and the way his breath tickled her ear. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the involuntary shiver down her spine. 

His idea, as many of them often were, was good, but she couldn’t help a slight pang of disappointment. No hotel, then. She glanced up at him. His eyes were a lot closer to her than they normally were, with his bending down to narrow the space between them. Her breath stuttered to a halt as she stared into his beautiful eyes and their kaleidoscope of blues and greens.

That same, strange look she’d caught from him earlier crossed through his eyes as he met her gaze---the one that unsettled and excited her all at the same time. A hungry, devouring look—as if he were a prowling lion who hadn’t eaten in days, and she was a particularly tasty zebra.

She clenched her hands at the thought, and then, suddenly, realized that she still had her hand wrapped around his. The rough feel of his calloused hand pressing more firmly into hers sent fireworks dancing across her skin.

Abbie licked her lips and swallowed again, trying to moisturize her suddenly dry throat. Crane’s eyes followed the movements, lingering for several moments on her lips. It was as if the world had suddenly slowed down. Time had come to a halt and all they knew was that moment.

His sharp intake of air rasped between them, and then the noise stopped as his breath held, hovering there, in the stillness, waiting to be freed again. She felt her heart thudding rapidly, almost as if from a long distance away. Nothing mattered but her focus on him. Everything else had no place.

Several seconds passed. His gaze searched hers with intent determination. She didn’t know what it was that he looked for. And Abbie had so little control over her face at that point, that she had no idea exactly what he was seeing.

But then, something changed in his gaze. His long lashes fluttered down over his blue, blue eyes, and a look almost of pain crossed the lean lines of his face.

Crane straightened, and ever so gently, tugged his hand away from hers. “Let us go then, Lieutenant,” he said softly.

And with that, he walked over to her car and stood on the passenger side, not looking at her as he waited for her to fumble, trying to steady her suddenly shaking hands long enough to find her keys. Finally closing her hand around them, Abbie pulled them out of her pocket and clicked open the lock, and without waiting for her or saying another word, Crane got into the car.

Abbie exhaled, trying to calm her shattered nerves. _God. Oh, God._

She only stood still for a moment or two, but that sense of timelessness still lingered. It was as if her mind couldn’t quite grasp the enormity of what had just happened and had left her to go process it, leaving her unable to move—her body now frozen in place, hovering, waiting.

But the world finally came crashing back in. The honk of a horn from the street behind them and a loud laugh across the parking lot of a group of teenage boys burst through the cocoon that had enveloped her. Abbie blinked rapidly, shook her head as if to clear it, and exhaled.

“To Bear Mountain, then,” she whispered to herself before she got into the car. “To Bear Mountain.”


	6. The best answer to an angry word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...that finale. My head has exploded, and not in a good way.
> 
> I hope to figure out a way to make that finale work in here. Not with the "It's all done but the crying" way, of course, but with a way that Abbie and Crane finish up Tribulation #2 and start up Tribulation #3. ;)
> 
> Thank goodness for fanfic. How did any of us survive the atrocities of TV writing without it??

There was a word for that forty-five-minute car ride. 

Excruciating.

Ichabod had never been so happy to be out of any enclosed environment—and he counted among his experiences being buried alive _twice_!

As soon as Abbie had parked in a space at the main parking lot, near the hiking trails, Ichabod couldn’t have exited the car faster.

He was not a man known for silence. Rather, in fact, he often was one who never closed his mouth. Or so his mother had said on one particularly memorable occasion.

Abbie’s rather surprising whispered conference about “bugs” and private conversations being eavesdropped on and recorded had made him infuriated. Keeping that under wraps was difficult enough. But then he’d been forbidden to speak of anything having to do with this chess master and Zoe’s murder. Add to that the fact that he’d been so aroused and inflamed by Abbie’s nearness during that whispered conversation that he’d had to discreetly adjust himself more than once in the car. _God’s bloody wounds_.

His fingers twitched as he paced around the nearly empty parking lot. It was the very epitome of impotence to be forced to wait such an interminable amount of time to even begin to consult with Abbie on all there was to discuss.

Abbie was, as usual, being methodical about her exit from her car. She grabbed things like her wallet and keys, made sure the doors were locked and nothing visible that could be stolen was lurking on the seats, tempting thieves. Then, she popped the trunk.

She had her rituals, much as he had his, but he was at the limit of what his patience could bear. “Lieutenant,” he said, his voice thrumming with the urgent pulse he could feel coursing through him.

Abbie gave him one of those looks. He ignored it—as he always did.

“Lieutenant,” he tried again.

The response to that was her handing him a knapsack. “Food, water, matches, first aid kit,” she said calmly as she put one hand on the car to brace herself as she tugged off her black heeled boots. “I’m not walking around Bear Mountain without supplies, Crane. And you look like you need something to do.” She then scooted herself up to sit gingerly on the back of the trunk and pulled out a pair of worn hiking boots. “We may be away from people up here, but it’s still a mountain. And sometimes regular old Mother Nature can be even more deadly than her supernatural cousin.” A black eyebrow winged its way upward. “You wear boots made for walking all the time.”

He couldn’t help his own eyebrow climbing in response. “Are you finally admitting, then, that those boots you wear—as attractive on your feet as they may be—are rather unsuited for our romps in the woods, Lieutenant?”

She gave him a sour look but did not reply. Abbie merely tied a final knot in the laces of the hiking boots and then hopped off the edge of the SUV. She set her other pair of boots inside the trunk and then slammed the door closed.

He didn’t say “ _Finally_!” with emphasis.

Not outside his head, anyway.

But something in his expression must have conveyed the thoughts inside his head, because she gave him a slap on the arm as she strode past him. “You may be a foot taller than me, Crane, but I can still take you down.”

A small smile began to curve his lips as he shoved the backpack onto his shoulder and took off after her. Of course she could. 

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

A little while later…

They’d walked for a good fifteen minutes, not saying a word to each other. The air was crisp and cool, despite the burgeoning of spring around them, but the sun shone merrily down on them from the afternoon sky. Any other day and Ichabod would have found the gorgeous weather, the breathtaking scenery, and the lovely company perfection indeed.

Instead, he was filled with an impatient irritation that had only had more time to build as they’d traversed the twisting path.

Abbie walked calmly under a low-hanging branch that nearly hit him in the chest because he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going, instead just blindly following her through a particularly tight spot on the trail. He ducked under the branch and scowled at her. “Are you _enjoying_ yourself, Lieutenant?”

She glanced at him but kept walking.

“Enjoying the sunshine? And the birds chirping?” Ichabod waved a few fingers toward a particularly loud blackbird up in the tree above them. “It’s a _fine_ day. Lovely, really, when you consider it.” He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the back of her head. “And here we are, not a care in the world!”

Abbie continued to ignore him as she marched forward, her hiking boots kicking up stones and dirt on the path as she walked.

“It’s really amazing, this mountain,” he continued. “Not an electronic device in sight. Just pure Mother Nature at its best. Trees, birds, rocks, vegetation…a veritable cornucopia of beauty!”

None of his sarcasm was making her turn around to stop to look at him. If there was one thing he hated more than waiting, it was being ignored. Especially by Abbie.

It was time to bring out the big guns.

“Thomas Jefferson and I once traversed through the Catskill Mountains. It wasn’t a day like this, however. Snow everywhere. And weather that was cold enough to freeze off a witch’s…”

“Crane,” she snapped. Her shoulders were tight, inching up toward her ears.

A satisfied smirk curved his lips. Going into long-winded stories about his past with any of the founding fathers usually made Abbie’s eyes glaze over and do just about anything to get him to shut up. Yes, he _had_ noticed.

And he was not above using that normal reaction of hers to his advantage.

“Don’t you smile, you smug ass,” she bit out as she whirled around and saw the remnants of his expression fast vanishing from his face. 

“We are up here in God’s country, far away from the entire world, it would seem,” he shot back at her. “How much further do we have to go before you will converse with me, Lieutenant?” Ichabod’s brow rose again, another sneer crossing his face. “Are you worried the fauna will overhear us and report back to the Wicked Queen that Snow White is still alive here in the forest?”

Abbie’s lips pressed into a firm, hard line, and her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Ichabod Bennet Crane.”

“Bringing out the full name now, are we?” He gave her a supercilious look. “Shall I call you Grace instead of Abbie?”

“You hardly ever call me Abbie,” she pointed out.

“You _never_ call me Ichabod,” he immediately snapped.

“No, I don’t.” Abbie’s words were simple and straightforward. She looked at him for a few more moments and finally sighed. “Just chill, Crane, okay?” She waved toward the path ahead of them. “There’s a clearing up ahead with a couple of good-sized rocks to sit on, if I remember right, and we can talk there.” She narrowed her eyes again before she retorted, “Be patient!”

She turned on her heel abruptly and continued walking.

“'Be patient', she says,” Ichabod huffed as he followed behind her. “Be patient. All I’ve _done_ is be patient. Be patient while I was left behind to come up with a sadly pathetic list of my non-existent friends. Be patient while I was interrogated by your former suitor. Be patient _and_ quiet while we drove for forty-five minutes.”

He took a deep breath as he followed her into a large clearing that overlooked the beauty of the nature around him. Ichabod noticed nothing. He had a full head of steam and was ready to continue his barrage, when he found himself having to pull up short as Abbie whirled around and grabbed the lapels of his coat. 

“Crane!” she bellowed. 

For it was, truly, a bellow, even coming out of someone as diminutive as the lieutenant.

He stopped, then, looking down at her, an irritated scowl on his face, ready to jump back into it with her, when he suddenly realized how very close she was standing.

All thought flew out of his head. Her hands gripped his coat, brushing ever so slightly against his chest. A brief look downward confirmed that he could see straight down into the form-fitting shirt she wore. He could even see the lace that outlined her… Ichabod bit back a curse and tried to step backward, away from her, trying to put a bit of room between them for some sort of sop for propriety’s sake.

It didn’t work. She followed him. The scent of jasmine and what was uniquely Abbie wafted up to him. The scent had already been burned in his eidetic memory long ago. He thought he’d be able to find her, in the dark, blindfolded and deaf, by that scent alone.

“Lieutenant,” he protested.

“You need to stop talking,” she said. “Stop complaining. I don’t like all this anymore than you do. I know it’s hard. And I know you’re not the most patient person in the world. You don’t even know the meaning of the word patience.” Every word she said, Abbie punctuated with a poke to his chest, propelling him backward as he continued to try to put a modicum of distance between them.

She kept advancing and yelling at him, and he couldn’t hear a word she said. All he could focus on was the sensuous movement of her lips as she berated him, the sway of her breasts as she pushed him backward, and the delicious, tantalizing scent that was pure Abbie.

“…and you need to shut up now, Crane? Do you hear me?” Abbie had backed him up to one of the tall fir trees that surrounded the clearing. As he backed into its bark, he relished the feel of its rough edges poking into his back. Perhaps the reminder of his surroundings would help him from doing something really, really stupid.

He stared at her, looking down at her lively, snapping dark eyes, and the way the sun glinted on her smooth brown skin, and all the wanting—all the months and months of wanting—welled up in him. He couldn't take it anymore. If she decked him, so be it. If she never talked to him again, he’d live with it. If she wanted to murder him on the spot, he frankly didn't give a damn.

For, at that moment, Ichabod Crane thought that if he could—just once—get a taste of her lips on his, he could die a happy, happy man.

So, instead of listening to that portion of his brain that always urged him to be careful around the lieutenant, he threw caution to the wind, narrowed his blue eyes, and said in a low, growling voice, “I’ll shut up if you will, Lieutenant.”

Ichabod reached out, grabbed her hand that was currently shaking its pointer finger at him, and yanked her into his arms.

Abbie let out a startled "oomph!" that was soon silenced when he tightened his arms around her and brought his starving, unsated mouth down to devour hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod Bennet Crane was actually a real person and is thought to be the inspiration for Irving's story. Since that is the rumor, I thought it'd be fitting to make this Ichabod Crane's middle name the same as his.
> 
> Bear Mountain is in the Catskill Mountains in New York. I've never been there so I have no idea how everything's laid out and what it looks like. Any errors are my own. *grin*


	7. Building your wings on the way down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not progressing very fast. *grin* But I solved a very tough problem in a computer program I was writing today and got another last minute surprise deadline program written much quicker than I thought. So I wanted to celebrate by posting something. 
> 
> I have a nice long weekend ahead. Hopefully, I can do some writing and progress the plot part of the story.
> 
> In the meantime, hope you enjoy the meanderings and the fluff. *grin*

Shock was her first reaction.

And her second and third, to be honest.

Crane had been stepping on her last nerve the whole hike from the car.

Abbie knew he was stressed out—the flying hands being a dead giveaway to his emotional state—and she still hadn’t heard how his interrogation with Luke had gone.

He was upset about Zoe, sulking over his perceived lack of friends, and simmering up to a boil about having to wait to be all emotional about it.

After the day he’d had, Abbie shouldn’t have been surprised that he started snarking at her during their hike up the mountain. 

She knew him. She knew he needed to talk things out. 

She was just the opposite. The more upset she was, the less she wanted to talk.

Again, yin and yang. God in Heaven above couldn’t have found two more different people to glue together as witnesses.

And yet, it worked.

Somehow, the damned thing worked.

Most of the time.

There were those moments, though, where he made her so angry that she wanted to shake him—to send him packing all the way back to the 18th century.

This was one of those times.

He’d snarked. She’d ignored him. He’d pushed some more. She’d tried to ignore him again. And then he’d started in with Jefferson.

And she’d lost it with him.

She’d been so wrapped up in taking his arrogant ass of a self down several pegs that she hadn’t seen it coming. She hadn’t been prepared.

Her mind had been peppering her with thought after thought about Crane and Zoe and the situation at the police station and his snarky obnoxiousness. Blazing fast, burning through her brain like electricity zinging through wires.

So it took her a few seconds to really understand exactly what was happening.

And then it took a few more for her to stiffen in shock.

_He’s kissing me. Oh, my God. He’s kissing me. OhGodohGodohGod…_

The shock began to wear off, and sensation slowly slithered in. Unreal, otherworldly sparks that had her brain stuttering to a halt. The flutter in her stomach. The tingles in her fingers from the clutch of his hand. The way the brush of his woolen coat against her chest sensitized her skin. Arousal roared to life, and her world suddenly narrowed to the warm, hungry pressure of his mouth against hers sending zings of pleasure through her body.

_Oh, God. Oh…God._

But as quickly as it happened, it stopped. He wrenched away from her, his chest heaving, his blue eyes turbulent with emotion, and a weird, incongruous look of irritation on his handsome face.

Abbie blinked at him, her mouth falling open a little. She pressed her mind. _Say something._

 _Nope. Got nothin’_ was her brain’s reply.

“God’s wounds!” Crane muttered. “This isn’t working.”

 _Wha…?_ She tried speaking. Nothing. Abbie swallowed, licked her dry lips and managed to squeak out, “Excuse me?”

“You’re too bloody short,” he declared.

Abbie immediately scowled at him. “ _Excuse_ me?”

She didn’t have time to protest further, because a moment later, she found herself swept up, whirled around, with her back up against the tree behind her. The scratch of the bark at her back finally brought her out of whatever stupor his kiss had put her into. “Crane! What the hell are you doing?”

“If I’m going to only get one opportunity to do this,” he shot back, his gaze sharp, narrowed and assessing her, “I’m not going to throw out my bloody back doing it.”

Abbie clutched at his shoulders, her face, for once, level with his. Her legs dangled rather inelegantly off the ground. She pushed against him, trying desperately to ignore the warm heaviness of his hands around her waist. “Crane, let me down,” she insisted.

Crane studied her for a moment before the ferocity melted from his face, and he sighed. “That was my one chance, Lieutenant, was it not? And I squandered it.”

Abbie stilled. Crane had the sheepish look on his face that said he was rapidly retreating—that he was coming out of whatever fevered state he’d been in, and reality was seeping back in. Any moment now, he was going to get embarrassed, flustered and apologetic.

She had no idea what had sparked the idea in his head of kissing her. The fact that he had was something she wanted to examine, but not now. She’d take it out and look at it later, worrying a little but marveling even more. But for now? Now, the thought of him pulling away and them hiding this under a rug—never to be talked about again—suddenly seemed intolerable to her.

“Lieutenant,” he began. His voice had softened, and his fair skin was already showing tinges of red. “I can’t comprehend as to what…”

Rather than permitting him to lower her to the ground or speak a moment more, Abbie swung her legs up, tightening them around his waist, and pulled him closer to her.

He stumbled forward, pressing her against the tree, his parts and hers lining up so very nicely.

Abbie studied his face. His wide, surprised blue eyes stared into hers. They’d hugged before, his arms wrapping around her, making her feel safe and cared for. They’d fist bumped, and he’d grabbed her hand in his. But this—this intimacy of seeing his face so close to hers. The blue, green and gray flecks in his expressive eyes on a level with her own…

Something inside her shifted—and she was certain that no matter what happened here today she would never be the same.

She exhaled and reached out a shaky hand to trace the curve of his face and then smoothed back the lock of his hair that always wanted to fall forward onto his brow. 

His breathing picked up. Abbie could feel it—the ragged, hitching pulsing in his chest against hers. Just as she could feel the press of his cock, nestling in a way that felt so good that she had to bite her lip to not moan out loud. He searched her face, looking for some sort of answer, trying to understand exactly what it was she wanted.

Abbie had never been a risk taker. Her childhood had always been in such turmoil around her that she always had done everything she could to keep herself under careful, deliberate control. Ever since Corbin had pulled her out of her mess, she’d sworn to herself that she’d never do anything so crazy and so foolish ever again.

And, more or less, she’d kept that promise.

Since then, she’d only truly jumped off a risky cliff once—when she’d chosen to believe a man who swore he was a British turncoat colonial American spy from the 1700s.

Her life had been crumbling out of control ever since. 

Ichabod Crane was the opposite of a safe, steady choice. He’d turned her world upside down and shaken it to the very core. Running through life next to him was a terrifying, magnificent freefall. Heart stopping and awe inspiring, all at once.

No matter how crazy it got, no matter how many times she’d looked death in the eye, Abbie had never been sorry she’d jumped off that cliff. Never once.

So here she was, with him, standing on the edge of another crumbling cliff, peering over its edge.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting the reality of it sink in.

Whatever cliff he wanted her to jump with him off of, she would jump. 

It wasn’t because they were witnesses. It wasn’t because she ignored the risks.

It was because she didn’t want him going anywhere without her.

_God._

Her heart thrummed so hard against her chest that she felt as if it would leap right out of it. Fleeting images of the symbol from the catacombs whispered to her at the edges of her thoughts. 

But instead of clinging to that, she opened her eyes and focused on him. Frustrating, irritating, obnoxious, marvelous him.

Abbie took a deep breath and then let her forehead touch his. “If you’re only going to get one shot,” she murmured, “then make it a god-damned good one, Crane.”

Crane stilled at her words for just a moment—a brief, fleeting moment. The short little intake of breath was all the acknowledgment of shock she got from him before that damned, beautiful eyebrow of his went winging upward, and a smirk to end all smirks curved his sensuous mouth.

She pursed her lips, scrunching her face at him, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak. The cocky look began to dissipate as he stared into her eyes. He brought his hands up to cup her face, his gaze searching hers with a kind of disbelieving wonder.

"Oh, _Abbie_ ," he whispered.

Her heart stuttered. She couldn't have responded, even if she'd wanted to

His gaze flicked toward her mouth before he finally, _finally_ captured her lips again with his.

There was a moment of sweetness--where the hunger inside gets that first taste. Decadent, delicious, irresistible.

And then the satiation of that first moment vanishes, and the hunger prowls with its voracious appetite, seeking more, _demanding_ more.

Small, tender kisses slid into longer, deeper ones. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His tongue swirled with hers. Her booted heels dug into his thighs as she pressed herself closer to him. _Mine._

When he finally, reluctantly, broke off the kiss to breathe, the harsh ragged sound echoed in her ears--the most melodious thing she thought she'd ever heard.

"My God," he murmured.

The stunned look on his face as Crane tried to get his breathing under some sort of control made her suddenly, inexplicably happy. Her mouth twitched, and she leaned forward, her eyes twinkling as she gave him another quick kiss. Then she said, "You definitely earned another shot, Crane."

This startled a chuckle out of him. His lips curved upward as he said softly, "As did you, Lieutenant. As did you."


	8. Be the chess player, not the chess piece.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So enjoying all this fanfic lately! I wish I could write as quickly as some of these folks! :) But you all are so inspiring to me!! :)

It was strange. So very strange.

Ichabod had definitely experienced the feeling of having his world upended. Sleeping over 200 years and waking up in the future was definitely as life changing and horrifying as one could expect it to be.

He’d had one experience after another of fumbling his way through the dark, trying to make some sort of sense of the world around him. He would have never ever—a thousand times not ever—expected to spend his life fighting evil and demons. There were days where all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and scream, much like the insane ones did in Bedlam, all those years ago.

And now, his life had been upended again. And yet…

Instead of that terrifying, chaotic, oh-dear- _God_ feeling, Ichabod only felt a sense of great, deep peace. As if something crucial and essential had locked into place.

For once, the inner scream had been silenced. Instead of his little world being shaken akimbo, all was order, calm and right.

Ichabod slanted a glance at Abbie, trying to read her expression. It was so hard, sometimes, to get beneath the Lieutenant’s reserve. He felt as if he were leaking out his feelings and emotions in a way that often embarrassed him, whereas she was able to keep a tight rein on hers. It frustrated him, partly because he wanted to understand her so badly, but also partly because he recognized in her a reserve and distance he used to be able to achieve himself. 

He was always forever wanting to talk about things with the Lieutenant. It was like a burbling wellspring in him that never seemed to be tapped. Always, always, he found himself talking, trying to provoke and entertain her. Much like the boys in school, pulling on pigtails, he supposed.

But right now? No desire to talk. None. 

Ichabod breathed in deeply, enjoying the sun on his face, the beauty of the vista around him, and the delicious hum of contentment in his veins. It was easy, in that moment, to forget the world and its problems. He wasn’t a Witness. He wasn’t a time traveler. He was just a man, enjoying nature’s loveliness with his favorite woman.

Abbie looked over at him, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “You look rather…satisfied.”

His lips quirked up at that, and he cocked his head as he gazed back at her. “I suppose I am.” Ichabod waved a hand toward her and said, “You look rather satisfied yourself.”

Abbie merely shrugged a shoulder in response, but he could sense that same sort of weird, peaceful, happy feeling radiating off of her as well. 

She was happy—if only for a brief moment or two—and it was because he had made her so. He liked that. He liked that very much. 

“So, now what?” she asked him.

Ichabod frowned a little. For once, he wanted to just revel in the moment. He didn’t want to pick apart what had just happened. Not until he had had a chance to just glory in it for a little while. “What do you mean?”

Abbie spread her hands in front of her. “We drove up to Bear Mountain, way in the middle of nowhere, so we could figure out what to do next.” She frowned at him. “And you still haven’t told me what Luke asked you about.”

 _Ah_. Ichabod relaxed, leaning against one of the tall pines that surrounded the clearing in which they were standing. Idly, he tapped one booted foot on top of the other. “There isn’t much to tell,” he said.

“You have a damned eidetic memory, Crane,” Abbie pointed out. “Word for word. Tell me what he said.”

“Well, he doesn’t like or approve of me, you know, Lieutenant,” Ichabod said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. 

“Yes, I know,” she replied. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“I have thought that his rather pointed dislike of me has something to do with the fact that he once was courting you, he thinks that you and I are courting, and he has been soundly disappointed in that hope of having you as his romantic partner again one day,” he mused. His blue-eyed gaze flicked to Abbie again, gauging her reaction and trying to keep the smile from his face.

“Word for word, Crane,” Abbie bit out, her dark eyes narrowing as she glared at him. 

_You won’t bite, Lieutenant?_ He sighed. “Oh, very well.” 

_Earlier that day…_

_Ichabod followed Detective Morales into the small chamber he so distinctly remembered from his first foray into the Sleepy Hollow Police Department._

_For the most part, the police department brought back wonderful memories for him—enjoying Frank Irving’s biting wit and sarcasm, and his friendly interactions with several of the beat officers who, more or less, accepted him as a somewhat eccentric but generally harmless partner in fighting crime._

_But the police department itself was mostly saturated with memories of Abbie Mills. Every corner had a shadow of a conversation, every piece of furniture was a place she’d bumped into or run her fingers across or leaned up against, and every space of the place was just filled with Abbie, Abbie, Abbie._

_All except this room, that is._

_Memories flooded through Ichabod’s mind as he entered through the door from the hallway. Memories of terror and bewilderment, of pain and disorientation, and of dishonor and humiliation._

_He and Abbie had never talked of that interview. She had tried once, but he had closed the topic so firmly and decisively that she had never made the effort again._

_The indignity and shame of that day still burned hot in his soul. If he had still been in the 18th century at that time, he would have failed Washington most spectacularly._

_He had heard and read of various methods of torture. He knew very specifically what could be done to get a prisoner to open up and spill his secrets._

_And while he acknowledged to himself that any man put through what he had been through on that fateful day would have been hard-pressed to be a good soldier and spy, Ichabod had never truly forgiven himself for the ease in which the Sleepy Hollow Police Department had elicited the truth of his allegiance and his secrets from him._

_So while the Sleepy Hollow Police Department’s building had mostly good memories for him, this room did not._

_Detective Morales motioned toward one of the chairs facing the long, narrow metal table. With a reluctance he could almost taste, Ichabod adjusted his long coat behind him and sat down._

_The chair was hard and uncomfortable, as he was certain was its design and purpose, but his travels throughout various times and circumstances had inured him to most discomforts. Ichabod Crane was hardly going to be cowed by a chair._

_Once he’d settled himself, Ichabod raised an eyebrow at Detective Morales and waited for him to begin._

_“So, it’s Captain Crane now, is it?” Detective Morales asked, a sneer on his chiseled face._

_Ichabod studied Morales, trying to see in the man what an earlier Abbie might have. All he saw was a vague sort of handsomeness that was ruined by arrogance and swagger. He also noted ink-stained fingers and a splash of some sort of tomato sauce on the man’s sleeve._

_It was an effort to keep a responding sneer from his own face, but somehow, Ichabod managed it._

_“It is not Captain Crane now,” Ichabod replied, his voice calm and even. “That is the past. I am no longer, at present, a member of any armed forces.”_

_“Is that what you expect people to call you?” Morales shot back._

_“I’m not expecting people to call me anything.” Ichabod leaned back in his chair._

_“Why is a murderer calling you Captain Crane?”_

_Ichabod gave him an incredulous look. “I have no earthly idea.”_

_“One of your army buddies?”_

_Ichabod barely contained a snort of derision. Was it only an hour or so before he had tried to recall friends of any kind who were living? His Continental Army “buddies”, as Morales called them, had long since joined the great majority. They certainly weren’t here murdering innocent women._

_“I’m not entirely certain, Detective Morales, what the significance is to these questions about my military rank.” His eyebrow winged back up again. “Do you plan on bringing in all former personnel of various armed forces to question them about their rank and how people address them?”_

“Seriously, Crane?” Abbie broke into his story, giving him that amused shake of the head she always did when she found him skirting the edge of ridiculousness.

“His interrogation of me was puerile. He was asking no relevant questions in regard to his investigation,” Ichabod scoffed. “I think he was obsessed with the idea that I outranked him in the military, and therefore somehow would be a better romantic choice for you because of that.” He rolled his eyes. “That a gentleman needs to puff himself up to that degree, relying on his military rank to get women to be interested in him is just….” He shook his head. “It is quite ridiculous.”

Abbie gave him a long look, her mouth pressed together in a line that indicated she was trying hard not to laugh. 

“Because you would _never_ use your military rank to get chicks,” Abbie said dryly.

Ichabod turned up his nose and sniffed. “I wouldn’t dream of it. No true gentleman would.”

Abbie rolled her eyes and snorted. “Will you get on with your story, grand gentleman of the ages?”

Ichabod ignored her look and comment, as he always did, and launched in again to his story.

_“I’m the detective. I’ll ask whatever questions I think are necessary,” Morales snapped._

_Ichabod sighed and shifted in his chair. “Carry on then, Detective.”_

_Morales paced back and forth across the room a few times, his agitation evident in every step he took. Finally, he stopped in front of the chair opposite Ichabod and scowled down at him. “Give me an account of your whereabouts for the past twenty-four hours.”_

_Ichabod cocked his head and asked, “How detailed of an itinerary would you prefer?”_

_Morales’ frown grew deeper. “Excuse me?”_

_“The question was quite simple, Detective. I want to know how detailed a report you would like.” He gave him a not very friendly smile. “I have an eidetic memory. I can give you a moment to moment listing, if you like, or a more general summary, if you’re not interested in delving into the matter that deeply.”_

_“An eide…what?”_

_“Eidetic memory. A photographic memory, to use the colloquial version. But it isn’t just sight, but sounds and smells as well.” He shrugged. “I’m able to give quite an accurate picture of the last twenty-four hours. It all depends on you as to how detailed a report you want me to give.”_

Abbie shook her head at him. “God almighty, Crane. You really are all about waving the red flag in front of the bull.” She waved at hand at him. “You couldn’t just simply answer his questions?”

“I did answer his questions, Lieutenant,” Ichabod protested. “As idiotic as they were. I even offered to write an account out minute by minute.” He rubbed a hand across his beard as he mused, “He didn’t like that much either, I’m afraid.”

Abbie sighed as she ran a hand down the back of her neck. “What else did he ask you? Any other questions?”

Ichabod shook his head. “I had just finished giving him a fairly detailed description of my last twenty-four hours, including several people who could provide me an alibi, when you came in and ushered me out.” He spread his hands in front of him. “That really is all, Lieutenant. He was not pleased to learn I had a good answer to his question, but that’s to be expected.” He gave her a curious look. “You seem to be rather gravely concerned about that which we spoke. I realize now that I haven’t inquired as to how your interview went with Sheriff Reyes.”

Abbie’s demeanor changed then. Her shoulders hunched up with an all-too-familiar tension, and she pursed her lips as she looked at him. Gone was the happy, peaceful relaxation.

Immediately, he frowned. “What is wrong, Lieutenant? What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead she scuffed her boot against one of the large, flat rocks that littered the clearing.

“Lieutenant?” he persisted.

“Her questions were all about you,” she said quietly. “I mean, yes, she asked me about where I was when Zoe was killed, but she got off of that pretty quickly. She was more interested in questioning me about how you showed up three years ago out of nowhere. She brought up Corbin’s murder, and Andy Brooks. Damn it, Crane. She was even asking me about your sex life.”

Ichabod’s eyebrows rose to his hair. “My _what_?” he demanded.

“Zoe, she…” Abbie sighed and ran a hand through her dark curls. “Zoe made you out to be a pretty big deal to her family. She liked you, Crane. _Really_ liked you.”

A guilty look crossed Ichabod’s face. “I liked her, too, Lieutenant. But it was not anything like…” His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes. _Zoe. God._

Abbie reached out to him, her small hand closing over his arm, and squeezed. “I know, Crane. I know. Sometimes, you just don’t click with someone the way you’d hoped to.”

Ichabod’s eyes fluttered open and he looked at Abbie for several moments before he shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. No. I never truly had any aspirations toward Miss Corinth.” He sighed. “She was pleasant and good company. It was delightful to spend time together.” Ichabod looked down at his boots, avoiding Abbie’s gaze. “But my heart was otherwise engaged,” he said softly. “I didn’t realize it. I _should_ have realized it much earlier. Miss Corinth knew before I did.”

Abbie pulled her hand away from him, and he looked up at the motion. She had a wary, uncertain look on her face, as if she’d stumbled into a minefield that she didn’t know how to cross.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest. It would be so easy. So easy to gloss over his words and facilitate the Lieutenant’s need for strategic retreat at that moment. He’d done it many, many times before.

But they’d never kissed before.

Ichabod didn’t want to deny what had just happened. He didn’t want a return to the weird, strange dance they’d been in for so long.

Ichabod squared his shoulders, a look of determination settling on his face. No. He wouldn’t make it easy for her to disregard the matter this time.

But before he could say anything further, Abbie spoke, her voice hoarse. “Crane, it’s more than that.” 

His eyebrows came together and he gave her a curious look. “More than what?”

“More than Zoe, Crane.” She blew out a breath, an agitated look crossing her beautiful face.

“I don’t understand,” he said with a frown.

“She asked me about Katrina, Crane. She said no one’s seen Katrina in months.” Abbie reached out for him again. “She thinks you killed Katrina, and she thinks you killed Zoe.”

Ichabod stared at her for several moments, dumbfounded. “Katrina?”

“She talked about Katrina, and then how you were seeing Zoe, and then she started making remarks about how we’re living together. She was not painting a pretty picture of you, Crane.”

Memories of that night—of Katrina’s death by his hand—washed over him. He still could hear the choked gasp from her lips as the blade sank into her body. Ichabod didn’t tell Abbie that sometimes he woke up at night, still smelling the metallic tang of her blood and hearing the sucking swish when he’d pulled the blade from her body.

Of the many deaths he’d lived through in his life, Katrina’s was one of them that haunted him the most.

It wasn’t that he’d felt he had other options, for he had come to understand and realize that Katrina had made her choices, and her choices had had consequences. And it wasn’t that he felt that their marriage could have continued and progressed in the 21st century as it had and would have in the 18th.

No. It was just that there were times when he still saw the fierce beloved patriot who had steered him onto a better path. The one who had helped him do the right thing for Arthur Bernard. The one who had saved him from certain death by Abraham’s hands.

A piece of him—a younger, more innocent piece of him—still belonged to that Katrina.

And that Katrina’s death still hurt him.

Ichabod rolled his shoulders back, as if trying to shake off the remnants of the memories that refused to leave his mind. “There is no pretty picture of me, Miss Mills,” he said, his voice rough and hoarse. “I failed in my duty as a son, a husband and a father. And now I’ve failed Miss Corinth, too.” His voice fell to a whisper as he stared at her. “Perhaps I will fail you, as well.” He closed his eyes, pain lancing through him. “Perhaps I already have.”

“Crane, stop.” Abbie clutched at his arm, shaking it. “You aren’t responsible for Zoe’s death. Katrina and Henry made their own choices. You aren’t responsible…”

“I _am_ responsible,” he snapped. “Responsible for so many things, Lieutenant. For death and suffering and mayhem in good, honest people. Why God chose me as a witness is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps you’d have been better off if I’d never…”

Abbie clapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t you say it, Crane. Don’t you _dare_ say it.” She shook her head. “We’re not perfect, either of us. You’ve done things you’re not proud of. So have I. We have no idea why we were picked out of the billions of people throughout time to be witnesses. But we are. You and me.” She let her hand fall as she stared up at him, her eyes hazy with unshed tears. “My life would not be better without you in it, Crane. Not ever.”

Ichabod looked down at her for a very long time, struggling against the weight of his guilt and shame and disappointment in himself. He did not understand what his gifted, beautiful lieutenant saw in him, but he was grateful beyond measure that she saw it. “There is nothing in this world for me without you in it, Abbie.” He grabbed her hand in his. “ _Nothing._ ”

A slow clap interrupted them. “So beautiful,” a voice behind them mused out loud. “I feel like I’m in a Shakespeare play.”

Ichabod and Abbie both whirled around, Abbie pulling her gun out of her holster.

A man leaned against one of the trees across the clearing. Everything about him was gleaming. From the shock of white hair on his head to his eerily pale, albino face to his pristine white suit and shoes.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Abbie demanded, aiming her gun steadily at the man.

“You’re very direct,” the man said, blithely ignoring the gun and appearing to be completely insensitive to any danger from them. “I was warned you would be.” He grinned, flashing bright white teeth at them. “He’s the pontificator; you’re the get-to-the-point one.”

“So, get to the point,” Abbie said, her eyebrows coming together in a frown.

“You won’t need that,” he replied and waved a hand toward her. The gun’s edges slowly began to blacken, spreading across its barrel. Abbie quickly set it down before the strange substance reached her hand.

“See? Unnecessary.”

“Who are you?” Ichabod demanded, stepping forward, his blue eyes narrowing.

“Another move on a chessboard,” the man said, his tone almost cheerful. “The master acknowledges your bishop gambit and counters with the Bryan-Counter gambit.”

Ichabod felt his heart leap up into his throat. He could feel Abbie’s tension ratchet upward as they stood, both staring at the man. “Our bishop gambit?”

“Oh, yes. A clever move on the part of your bishop. You should check with him soon.” The man gave them another lazy smile.

“The Bryan-Counter gambit,” Ichabod said, struggling to get the words out of his suddenly very parched throat. Feverish heat licked up through his body and the world began to narrow in front of him, speckles of light dancing in his peripheral vision. “That’s…” he paused, his brain scrambling for the memory. “That’s the queen…”

“The queen to H4,” the man said, giving him another strange little smile. “Check.”

The dancing speckles of light had their way, and Ichabod fell to his knees, no longer able to stand, his breath becoming more and more labored.

“What the hell are you doing to him?” Abbie yelled. She leaned down, peering anxiously at him. “Crane?” Her hand reached out for his shoulder, his arm—anything she could grab to keep him from falling.

“Don’t touch me,” he managed to get out, twisting his body away from her. “Don’t…”

The man, unperturbed by the whole display, looked down at a gleaming white watch. “Tick tock, tick tock, Ichabod Crane. What move do you make now?”

Rational thought was quickly leaving his mind. Ichabod could feel the disease creeping throughout his body. Red spots peppered his hands and face. Each breath in and out became more and more of an effort. He resisted the temptation to give in to it, putting all his effort into a grab for one memory—the only one that mattered.

_White king hasn’t moved yet on the board. Black queen to H4. Bryan-Counter gambit._

He blinked rapidly several times. It was an effort to even keep his eyes open. Ichabod sank his hands to the ground, fighting to stay conscious.

“Crane. God. _Crane._ ” Abbie’s agitation and pain were additional stabs to his soul. 

_For Abbie. Must…for Abbie._

His hands shook with the effort of holding himself up, and Ichabod collapsed to the ground. His last rational thought was a memory of a chessboard, and the sunny, well-loved smile of his childhood schoolmaster.

_“Here, Ichabod. You have two choices. Move the pawn or move the king. Which is the better choice?”_

_His younger self studied the board, committing it, without trying, to memory. In his mind, he played each piece, anticipating the black queen’s next move, based on the one he chose._

_“Save the pawn. Move the king,” his childish voice said firmly. His younger self grabbed his white king and lifted it. “King to F1.”_

“King to F1,” he whispered. “King to F1.” His eyes fluttered closed, and he finally lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edmund Young coined the phrase "joined the majority" to refer to someone dying. Along the lines of "joined the choir invisible." I like hunting for these old phrases that likely would have been more common when Ichabod was young than they would be today. :)
> 
> Tom Mison once mentioned in an interview that he thought Ichabod Crane probably had a constant internal scream going on, trying to cope in the 21st century. The reference here to that is a nod to him. :)


	9. The Game's Afoot!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a couple half finished pieces that I thought I'd get cleaned up and post tonight. Now to see if I can squeeze in one that's written from scratch. *grin*
> 
> Sorry it's been so very long on this story! Eeek!
> 
> I'll try to write more soon. Promise!

“What have you done to him?” Abbie demanded.

The sound of Crane’s harsh, ragged breathing was the only indicator that he was still alive. She didn’t dare look at or touch him, even though every cell in her body was screaming at her to go to him.

She needed her full focus on the strange man in front of her.

“A good play, Captain Crane,” he mused, ignoring Abbie’s comment all together. “You may figure this out yet.” His bizarre-looking eyes then slanted in her direction. He gave her a half smile before he began to dissipate, turning into a column of white smoke before vanishing all together.

“Don’t you dare leave!” Abbie yelled, running over to where the column of smoke had been. “You come back here, you bastard. You fix him!”

Abbie’s shouts merely echoed out to the world around her. There was no one left there to hear her.

“Lieutenant?”

Crane’s groan made Abbie whirl about. She quickly crossed the clearing again, kneeling down to where Crane was struggling to get to his hands and knees.

“Crane?” she asked anxiously. “What did he do to you? What happened?”

Crane finally heaved himself up to all fours, breathing out a shaky breath, before he sat back on the ground, several locks of hair falling over his pale face.

“Stay here. I’ll go to the car and see if I can get a signal on my phone,” Abbie said, jumping to her feet. “Maybe we can get a helicopter up here…”

“Lieutenant,” he said, his voice a little stronger. “No. Just…no.”

Abbie frowned at him. “He did something to you, Crane. You collapsed right in front of me. We need to get you to the hospital.”

Crane shook his head. “Look.” He held out his hands, which only seconds before had been covered with angry red spots. The spots were quickly fading, returning the skin to its normal color. “I’m already feeling much better. I think he took whatever disease he gave me with him.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital, Crane,” Abbie said, her tone brooking no argument. “Even if it’s disappearing now, God knows what kind of time bomb he could have left you with.”

Crane scowled at her. “Don’t you think that’s what he wants, Lieutenant?” He waved a dismissive hand at her. “Me, under quarantine in one of those bloody plastic tents, where I cannot assist you?” He shook his head again. “We cannot be separated. It is too crucial that we remain together.” He took a deep breath. “Just give me a few moments to recuperate. I am already feeling much better.”

Abbie scowled back at him as she sat down next to him on the grass in the clearing. Even though Crane was correct—his color was returning to normal, and the symptoms of the sudden disease seemed to be evaporating—she still felt a deep, stubborn reluctance to letting it be.

Crane finally brushed the hair out of his face and gave her a weak smile. “Really, Lieutenant. I am fine.”

Her scowl still remained intact. “If you won’t go to the hospital, I’m taking you to Joe. He will check you over to make sure you’re all right.”

Crane rolled his eyes, which earned him a slap on the shoulder.

“This is not a game, Crane.” Her dark eyes narrowed in a fierce glare.

She could tell he was ready to respond with one of his tirades when all of the sudden, he stopped. The expression on his face dawning with some sort of understanding.

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” He reached over and grabbed her arm. “Lieutenant! Yes. That’s _exactly_ what it is.”

She stared at him for a moment, nonplussed. “Crane, I don’t…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered the chess set. The man who’d just vanished in thin air had mentioned chess moves again. What if… _what if_ …

“The moves, Lieutenant. They’re for some sort of game. Some sort of already established game!” Crane’s face was lit with excitement. “We just have to figure out which game he’s playing…”

“…and perhaps we can anticipate his next move.” Abbie met Crane’s gaze, an answering, traitorous excitement pulsing inside her.

Neither of them should have been happy or pleased about one iota of this so-called “game”. A chess game often had many pieces sidelined or “killed” in its duration. And the fact that Crane was obviously considered the white king in this particular game should concern her even more. Especially since the game’s goal was to capture the opposing king.

But she couldn’t think about that at the moment. The two of them beamed at each other with that thrill of discovery, the excitement of the chase, and the all-encompassing itch to bring the battle to the opponent.

It was the closest Abbie ever got to feeling as if she was doing exactly what she’d been put on earth to do. It was like nothing else. A sense of deep rightness with herself and the world. And when he looked at her with that matching grin, she thought perhaps Crane felt the exact same way.

His smile banished the fears that always lurked nearby, waiting to return. He quirked an eyebrow at her as if to say, “Well, Lieutenant?”

“Back to Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod Crane,” she said. Her dark eyes gleamed as she stood up and picked up her now immaculate gun from the ground. “Let’s go win us a fucking game.”

Meanwhile…

Sophie Foster still had that strange feeling that she’d been dropped into the Twilight Zone.

It didn’t matter how many weeks she’d known of the strange, supernatural things happening in Sleepy Hollow. She always felt the disorientation that she wasn’t quite on-kilter.

And it grew harder and harder to keep those supernatural happenings from coming under the microscope of the FBI.

“Foster?”

Daniel Reynolds stuck his head out of his office door as she passed by. Sophie bit back a curse, stopped, and turned to look at her boss with a look of inquiry. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Can I see you in my office for a minute?”

With that, he ducked back into his office, walking over to the large desk on one side of the room.

Sophie sighed, brushed a long lock of hair out of her face, and entered Daniel’s office. He gestured toward one of the chairs in front of him, and Sophie sat down, trying not to let her face give away anything.

“You’ve heard about the murder,” he began.

There were many murders that happened in a day—more than she ever liked to see, especially in the weird burg of Sleepy Hollow—but Sophie didn’t pretend to misunderstand his meaning. She nodded curtly.

“You ever meet this Zoe Corinth?”

Sophie hesitated. She remembered the woman. Pretty, in an ordinary kind of way. A stereotypical librarian type. Not the sort of person she expected Ichabod Crane to fall for. Most of her experience with Zoe Corinth was helping Joe Corbin drag her unconscious self around, trying to avoid the undead.

But she didn’t think that was really what Daniel wanted to hear.

“I only ever met her in conjunction with her kidnapping a few weeks ago,” she said, trying to pick her words as carefully as she would have traversed a mine field. “I did some questioning of her after she’d been rescued.”

“But you never…” Daniel hesitated, obviously trying to make up his mind before he continued further.

“I never…?”

“Never saw her in a…social context?”

Sophie shook her head. “Crane dated her for a while before Mills disappeared.” She hesitated and then shrugged. “And that was before I knew him at all.” She paused again before saying, “I think he pretty much ghosted her after Mills disappeared.” She idly rubbed a worn place in the arm of the chair in which she was sitting. “He was making himself sick trying to find Mills. He didn’t have any time for Zoe Corinth after that.”

It was rather obvious that Reynolds didn’t like that answer. Sophie sighed internally. _How did Mills get so lucky as to have too such different and yet both amazingly handsome men at her feet like this?_

She frowned. _You really need a man, Foster._

“What is it with that guy, anyway?” He had continued on with the conversation, oblivious to her mind wandering. “He walks around like a reject from a Revolutionary War re-enactment and has such a weird way of talking. He is just…God. Everything that you would think Abigail Mills would have no interest in.” He scowled. “And yet, he’s living in her house. They go everywhere together. And it’s like…she’s eating it all up. I just don’t get it, Foster. I really don’t.”

Sophie wasn’t sure quite what to say at that point. Ichabod Crane was weird, yes. No question about that. But he was gorgeous. And he had a beautiful British accent.

Those two things alone would be enough for her.

But there was also the fact that he very obviously worshipped the ground Abbie Mills walked on.

The fact that Abbie Mills wasn’t all over that with a fork and a knife was a bit mind-boggling to Sophie.

But nobody asked her, right?

“I think it’s more about what Mills gets, sir,” she said finally. “I know it can’t be easy on you to hear this, but there is definitely more there than just simple friendship.”

Daniel blew out a breath and then grimaced. “Yeah, I know.” He rubbed a hand down the back of his neck as he glanced over to the board that had information on it about Zoe Corinth’s murder. “But what about Zoe?” he asked. “How does she fit into the picture?”

“Maybe someone thought she meant more to Crane than she did?” Sophie wanted nothing more than to call Jenny Mills at this point and demand to know what exactly was happening. Especially because she was certain that there was a supernatural element to this. If it involved Crane, it almost always involved the supernatural.

“Maybe,” he muttered. “It’s a hell of a mess, whatever it is.”

“Should I go talk to Mills? Find out what’s going on?”

Danny hesitated for a moment before nodding. “She was supposed to be interviewed by the Sleepy Hollow PD earlier this afternoon. Find out what happened.” He rubbed his temples, his voice weary as he said, “She just got back to active duty. I don’t want to bench her, Foster. But this murder…their names involved…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.”

Sophie got to her feet, pushing the chair in which she’d been sitting back toward the desk. “I’ll talk to her.”

He just nodded, not even really seeing her as she slipped out of the room, glad for the escape.

Sophie was half way down the hall in just a few quick strides, her phone already out, dialing Jenny Mills’ number.

“What?” barked the younger Mills’ voice through the phone.

“Hello to you, too,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “What the hell is going on?”

“A bit busy at the moment. Fighting a nasty-ass demon with some sort of leprosy. Can I call you back?”

“Where are you? I’ll come to you.”

Jenny rattled off an address and then the line went dead.

 _I should have stayed home today. I should have just stayed at home._ "Shit." Sophie took off in a run for her car.


End file.
